Burning
by Sad Mudokon
Summary: Heat. It does a funny thing to cells. Sometimes it kills em. Sometimes it just makes em forget. Warnings. Slash. Oddness. Transformation. Thrax/Ozzie of a sort


Burning  
  
*cough* Okay. Disclaimer. Adult content, yaoi warnings, oddness. An attempt at keeping IC. Lets hope it worked. Yeah. Well anyway, on with the show. R&R as you feel necessary, but I'm not pushing for it.  
  
"And you're listening to the heartbeat, all beats, all the time..." Ozzie let out a faint sigh as he let one arm hang out the window, feeling the breeze blow over his membrane as they threaded traffic through the bowels of downtown Frank. Unlike some of the cardiovascular crowd, he wasn't much of a fan of the heartbeats though. The beats were always the same. No originality or creativity. It was really starting to set him on edge. Not that a lot of things hadn't been getting his cytoplasm in a boil as of recently, which was at least mildly to disturbingly uncharacteristic of him. He was usually such a cool, efficient, (sexy undoubtedly) cell, always there for the flow of Frank, dependable, if a bit of a wild streak. Not more than a week ago the chief had even ordered a carcinogen scan taken of him! Can you believe that spit? Like he, HE would ever go cancerous... Even now his hand shook, fingers lashing out as he reached forth to switch off the radio, leaning back in the cushioned seat of his ride, face stormy.  
  
The temperature was high that day, soaring well past the pleasant balminess of 98.6, but Shawn had been authoritative that it was a common side effect of the sheer amount of running that had happened that day in the summer sun, dragging Frank up who knew what hill this time, sending all of Frank into this sweltering heat. Getting in shape was all well and good; Ozzy supported Leah and Mayor Colonic in their crusade for the Six Pack Abs campaign, but if it meant more days like this? Sometimes a cushy Frank didn't seem that bad... and as another superheated breath of plasma slid in, Ozzy found himself most definitely no longer in the mood to think anymore about the subject.  
  
Drix was silent. He'd been silent for the entirety of the ride. The chief hadn't been happy with things over the last few days, and the increased sweltering heat of the offices hadn't helped things. It was safe to say that all parties were on edge, and unfortunately it had been Oz and Drix who had caught the latest brunt of abuse. Just because that doughnut popping bag of hot plasma was a bit irked over the glucose melting off his glazed old fashioned didn't mean he had to raise the amps till both their ears rang... Stupid Chief. Stupid HEAT...  
  
But Jones had been just as irritable, and he felt rather than figured that this was the reason the cherry flavored wonder hadn't breathed a word the entire trip.  
  
"Whoo! Is it salty in here or is it just me..." A quiet quip as he wiped a few drops of saline sweat from his brow, wincing a bit. Okay, so wit and charm had utterly failed him, and that had sucked pretty badly. But, laughing a bit falsely, disarmingly, Ozzie just flashed a stunning grin to his partner and companion, aiming for disarming... but ended up flat as Frank after a glass of warm milk. Drix had the oddest expression on his face... a soft sort of contemplative deadpan, staring three degrees directly right of straight forward and seemingly remaining right there, sharp angled eyebrows arched faintly and mouth stupidly one quarter agape. And he was ~fidgeting~ ...Drix turned faintly, glancing at OJ as he hunched in his seat, eyebrow membranes low and dangerous at the faint protesting sounds of membranes stretching for the fifteenth time since they'd peeled away from the precinct. Drix looked back sheepishly, that ever placid composed expression seeming a bit guilty. He hunches over in what can't be a comfortable position, his ever pleasant oxford-esque voice sighing gently, waving his non cannon hand listlessly in what should be an illustrative point but so very wasn't. And it just annoyed him more. "Sorry." before he shifted again, looking none too pleased with the dimensions of his partner's vehicle, though he bore it in relative silence. The car on the other hand just squeeeeeeeeeaked and strained once more, and Drix, as before, was silent as the graveyard of a peeling foot... Until-  
  
A blur of blue and that grin again. "OW! Ozzie?" The flat, plasticine section of shoulder stung under his fingers as he grabbed his shoulder defensively, rubbing at where Ozzie had hit him, with a somewhat too hard to be playful manner. The half grin that met him wasn't too cruel, more playful than anything as he stared into Jones eyes, his own unreadable. Ozzie might be playful and overly laden with... whatever it was white blood cells got filled with, but he wasn't one to strike without merit or reason... "Ozzie, are you feeling all right?"  
  
Yellow. A flash. There, in the gaze, but subtle. But, moments, it was gone. Gone? Had it been there at all? Drix stared... before shaking his head and idly scraping a finger against his seam. Was he losing his potency? And Jones just stared at him as if he had cracked open, filling the car with cherry flavored madness. No, couldn't be. There was nothing wrong with Ozzie that a little elevated temperature hadn't caused. It wasn't hot enough for protein disruption though, was it? Drix drifted close for a second, a quick scattering of cool effervescent bubbles propelling him towards the center of the car, and, before Jones could comment, much less protest, a cool metallic hand drifting across Jones brow as they drove down the interFrank.  
  
There was a sharp smacking sound, like a miniature report of a blaster as Osmosis' hand whipped out- and slapped Drix's hand aside, the gesture sudden and HARD. But whatever sharp angry protest about his partner being a childish jerk evaporated from the pills lips as he stared at the blue form beside him, now glaring with a strange uncharacteristic paranoia as he panted.  
  
"Ozzie... you're burning up!"  
  
The white blood cell waved this off however with a kurt gesture. "Hello, Frank to Drips; have you FELT the plasma outside today? of COURSE I'm burning up! What cell in Frank outside of some of the lucky saps in the lungs WOULDN'T be burning up??" His panting seemed almost worse now as he wiped his brow once again, staring at his partner for a second before commenting somewhat sourly. "Get a little hot sauce into that propulsion system of yours and I'm sure you'll feel just what I'm talking about."  
  
"But Ozzie-"  
  
"But Ozzie nothing. We're heading to the job site and then I am going to BED. Mid day siesta sounds sweet to this little overworked cell, I tell you..."  
  
At this the car protested once again, Jones sighed ill humoredly  
  
and Drix staaaareed. "Jones?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"The chief didn't GIVE us a job. Remember? He spent five minutes complaining about how we didn't deserve the afternoon off?"  
  
Ozzie turned in his seat, not even bothering to watch the road as he drove effortlessly, his eyes behind the sunglasses thoughtful and calculative. "You weren't there when he mentioned it. Remember? You headed off to try to track down the lunchtime lackey for a footlong subdermal? Chief detailed it all out for me."  
  
Drix looked dubious at best. "As long as he doesn't send us back to that swamp of an ingrown toenail..."  
  
"...." Jones drove, eyes on the road. Suspiciously so.  
  
"Ozzie? Tell me he didn't send us down to the toenail. Please tell me he didn't send us down to the toenail AGAIN. This is the third time this week alone!" More squeaking as a large hand engulfed Drix's head, trying to massage away a sudden headache.  
  
Jones made quite the face as he glanced sympathetically at the bulky red and yellow figure beside him. "Weeeeeeelll..."  
  
"FRANK it ALL! Why? Why me? I was educated in the highest schools! I'm not made for running around in this, this misery. This is madness... Oh for Frank's sake, why didn't I just hop the bladder express when I had the chance?" Maybe even the heat was beginning to bother the cold pill; normally Drix was so calm, so placid, the even tempered one of the partnership. But now even he had blown up, which hadn't happened since they had first started working together. And he'd brought it up again. It had been a touchy subject, once he had started mentioning it. Just idle notes here and there, more a leverage point to hurt when they were fighting. Jones was ridiculously better at the scathing comebacks, but Drix had won hands down even idly mentioning that possibility to himself the first time it had been brought up. And now it slipped out now and again, idly. Deliberately, Jones thought in defensive anger. And suppressed pain. It was a touchy subject. Heck, the relationship itself was a touchy subject, one that hadn't been broached the entire time. Studiously ignored, avoided, driven under the rug. A coworker had commented that they quarreled like husband and wife, and that had certainly opened up a lot of thoughts to them. Unpleasant ones. Complicating ones. And they had called a truce on their thoughts, locked the lot of it away and went on with their life.  
  
But he had mentioned it again. Over NOTHING. Stupid Drix! Although, as they rode, Jones hid his anger well, his hurt, driving on. Silently.  
  
Although Drix himself was by no means stupid in the least.  
  
"Ozzie. You know I didn't mean that."  
  
Too hot to argue. Let it drop. "I know man." Not completely convincing, but he wasn't arguing with it. Too hot for fights the nucleus drove for. Too hot for anything but getting this done and going to sleep.  
  
He slammed the door, putting a lot into it. Despite the heat, it felt good. Aggressive. Which is good, when you're, you know, in a bad mood. Oh yeah. Slam. He felt the tension run along his arm. The membrane slurped against itself as it sealed obediently, Jones car easing into a lump on the sidewalk of the broken down lane of tenement shanties.  
  
Whoo boy was it HOT. It was hot in a way that it wasn't supposed to EVER be hot. The end of Frank hot! But everyone else seemed merely miserable. Was it just him? Osmosis shook his head. It was pointless to think of such things. Just get the job done, get out of there, get home, crawl into bed and try to forget about things till the sun had gone down and Frank was balmy and cool inside.  
  
The car made a particularly labored sound then, a horrible sound, a protesting how the hell can you be doing this to me sound. And sadly, a familiar sound. Drix eased carefully from the vehicle, trying not to rip the delicate membrane and succeeding somewhat, easing out of the car and hovering with a flurry of bubbles over the cracked and crumbled pavement beneath them. The heat hit them like a slap in the face, the temperature in Frank's shoes reaching a positively indecent degree. The sweat glands were working overtime, the heavy duty sweat stacks billowing out the smelly clouds to try to cool what could not be cooled, resulting in a humid, utterly miserable mess, a blistering haze that hung over everything, making it that much worse.  
  
They surveyed the crusty buildings with a look of extreme distaste. The place was a ghost town now, the heat having driven out or driven indoors anyone who had the shame to call this stretch of Frank home. Jones watched in distaste as some crawling germ made a quick exit. Hunting down foot bacteria on the other hand could wait another day...  
  
The infection had been cleared out a week ago; Frank had of course, being the clumsy shmoe that he was stubbed his toe, and badly. And the local bacteria, sensing an opportunity as only they could, had moved in and locked down the place. The Chief had, of course, been furious. It had taken a trip to the doctors to get them out! Three days of hot throbbing toe and then a trip to the doctor's office? Frank had not been happy... The gang of bacteria that had been holed up in the fortified shack right beside the ingrown toenail had been routed out in the cool sterility of a doctors office, the wound swabbed and treated. There was no need for anyone to return. But, thanks to Cheify back at the offices, they had been on cleanup duty ever since. But things had been silent for days. Why were they still here?  
  
It just didn't add up. But it was too hot to think. It was too HOT. "I'm going to check down the lane, starting at the old toejam canning factory, okay Ozzie?"  
  
But Ozzie just waved him off, a universal whatever, staring at a small cluster of buildings. Posture slumped. Poor guy, Drix couldn't help but reflect as he let the effervescent cascade propel him, heat must really be getting to him.  
  
Had Drix been paying attention, he may have seen a few things. He may have seen the sweat positively dripping from the white blood cell's strained visage, seen him reach up to snatch the liquid free only to have it re- condense seconds later. He may have noticed the abnormal heat of the place.  
  
He may have noticed the twin hell gold eyes staring from the shadows.  
  
But it was too hot. Just too hot.  
  
--  
  
The door slammed, the flakey membrane barely hanging onto its hinges as he slams the door, and then alternately slams his shoulder into the wall beside the door, hands on his face as he slides to the floor, sweat dripping. No longer individual drops, it ran in virtual rivulets, trickling from his chin. Why was it suddenly so hot here? Suddenly so hot, suddenly... so... hot. Just a second, just a second to wait there, just a second to rest. Mopping at his brow with his sleeve, he struggles weakly to his feet, heading for the bathroom with a weak lurch to his step. Water. Cool water. There would be water there...  
  
He was in shambles when he hit the bathroom, hands shaking as they clamped onto the cool keratin. It kept running into his eyes, stinging. The place was filthy but he didn't CARE. The sink shrieked as he turned on the flow, the gritty brown liquid that flowed free smelling of iron and dirt. It was water. Not particularly nice water, or particularly cool, but it was water. It soaked his clothing where it hit, sliding down his neck and onto his thin white shirt. He hadn't even bothered with the jacket this morning, waking in a wet spot of his own sweat. Were he not so hot, he might notice something rather interesting. Where the water hit- it steamed.  
  
Hands hitting the sink with a hollow sound he straightened, throwing his head back as he looked up ...and stared faintly for a few seconds.  
  
And a pair of pale white gold eyes, glowing and half delirious, staring from a stricken visage of sweat and spreading, pulsing red veins and splotches.  
  
"Whu... what's happening to me?"  
  
--  
  
Despite the various times he'd claimed to be ready to vomit, at this or that story that Jones seemed to delight with throwing at him, this was the first time he actually had. Throat burning, he hovered there, his hand shaking as he dared another look back at the ground behind the old rusted desk, the disgusting institution green an odd contrast to the oddly gentle blues, now dulled with death and the sickly brownish red that had infected the cell who lay there, sprawled behind his desk. A corpse for who knows how long, the body lay before him, twisted in on itself, eyes wide and glazed. The overalls had been torn and scorched, his stomach membrane ripped open, slit up the middle and blistered from the heat. And the eyes... the eyes. Wide open with death, they stared, a half choked off scream on the dead one's face from where he had been slit from stomach to throat in one violent gesture. And dripping from within him, stringy pale red strands of viral DNA, now brown from the air, useless, inert, harmless. Though whether he had died from the infection, or had survived long enough for, for...  
  
What was left of his lunch was forfeit at that particular thought. Things were just looking up, weren't they?  
  
--  
  
"Why you of all people?" Hot cheek to cool keratin, he raised his head with a sudden start, blinking glazed, gummy eyes as he tried to straighten, dull gaze staring at the spreading stain across the back of his hands. The grimy mirror didn't show much, but as he stared into it, two pairs of eyes stared back at him, one wide and delirious from heat sickness, the other playful, composed, languid... and both an insane yellow. A spreading iris already began to push aside the darker hue, the pale yellow sickly around a utterly black pupil staring back at him from within his sweat streaked face. He was dead, the thought ran fervently through his mind as he turned, feet unsteady on the damp tile floor. Brightly, he stated as such, pointing an accusing finger at the dark figure. "You died. I saw it. I saw you die!"  
  
Chiseled features tugged upwards in a toothy grin as the viral observer drifted closer with a few casual, languid strides. And laughed as a shaking blaster was pushed into his face, barrel quavering as badly as the arm holding it. His laugh was soft, mocking, cool as ever as the viral assassin slipped closer... and deftly inserted the tip of his glowing left talon into the barrel of the gun. Even burning, Ozzie felt the melting slag of his weapon in time to drop it before it scorched him, the material bubbling around itself into a sodden lump... and he was caught unawares, staring dully at the melting weapon as the blur of black whipped towards him, a flashing shape of tight red features and sharp leering grin. And he was there. He was really there, a breath away, chiselled grin and hard laughing eyes. "Thrax."  
  
"Jones! Long time no see... lookin' good baby! I like that color on you!" Talons ran along the sickly hues spreading over his arm. Thrax just smiled, teeth wickedly sharp. "I suppose you did see me die. But don't you know about us Jones? Viruses Jones. We never really die... not really and truly. Sure, you saw it, saw me when I fell. Probably felt pretty good too. But they didn't kill ME." Suddenly he was THERE. Without space. Breath now breathless and eyes to eyes, the heat cooking him as he stared at the virus, listening mutely. He should be trying to kill him. He should have been trying to lock him up. He still had his cuffs... didn't he? Suddenly the floor seemed to twist beneath him.  
  
"Take a load off Jones. You look like you need it."  
  
He was already against the filthy edge of the tub. There was nowhere to go, and despite some useless windmilling of his arms he fell, landing in an askew, sprawling heap.  
  
"Gotta cool you down Jones. You feel it don't you? Boilin' inside! Like a fire lit beneath ya, and nothing you can do can get away from it! And running around outside in the middle of summer when yer sick? Baby, you're lucky ya got this far..." The claw snapped off the handle and the lukewarm water began to fall, steaming off his unnaturally heated flesh, filling the bathroom with clouds of white.  
  
He gasped weakly, blinking back the haze in his mind from the boiling heat. The shower wasn't particularly cool, but it helped, drove him back towards lucidity, back towards sanity, towards himself. And towards fighting. Struggling for purchase in a filthy tub that looked like pox had been slaughtered in it, Osmosis tried to rise. Only to find a foot on his chest, holding him down. The steam shot from the black cloth, Thrax's heat throwing off the water as soon as it touched down. He was dry. "Come on baby. Just relax."  
  
"I KILLED YOU!"  
  
"No, the alcohol killed me. Or, at least, my body."  
  
"Your... what??"  
  
"Still cooking Jones? I thought you'd be sharper than that by now!" Another twist and another crunch and the water was suddenly ice. The foot crushed him down as he tried to leap free of the strangely burning liquid, a snarling gasp of pain rising in his throat...  
  
"Yesssssss... that's it. That's IT." Jones struggled weakly, purple tinged hands pushing fiercely at the slim black foot holding him there.  
  
"It burns doesn't it Jones? The cold. It eats at you doesn't it? Biting. Biting. Biting with its little teeth." Eyes an insane yellow, the black figure leaned forward, the steam springing off him as he stepped into the tub, blocking the water with his slim, tight back. Osmosis just gasped, teeth bared as he waited for the stinging pain to fade. Water hurt... water hurt? He rose unsteadily, eyes narrowed to slits. "What did you do to me Thrax? What did you DO? What's HAPPENING TO ME?"  
  
He burned softly as Jones stared into his eye. "You're surviving."  
  
"Wh."  
  
"Survival Jones." His eyes twitching, he bore the pain, a feral snarling smile on his face. "Survival." A handful of claws, his right hand snagged the front of the white shirt, bringing him closer. "Me. NOT me. Confused yet Jones? You watched him dissolve. I don't even remember what his name was! Though he was strong to survive me. But that was a long time ago. tsk tsk .Viruses, Jones. We know how to survive, how to man-i-pu-late our surroundings to our advantage..." And Osmosis just stared. A hand rose, the claws tracing beside the murderous yellow eyes, now wide with a frantic incomprehension. And he couldn't help it. The laugh. Not meant to be mocking, it came unbid, roiling from within him.  
  
"Oh Jonesy, you have no IDEA how surprised I am by all this. You. Of all people."  
  
Jones tried to wrench free as the hands shot out. An orange glow lit his face, an inch away. He FELT the heat of it, but oddly it was just terror. Not pain. He'd seen what a weapon Thrax's touch could be, even without touching it could burn... but... Thrax grunted, fighting the water at his back and the white blood cell fighting beneath him. "I don't understand!" It was forced between gritted teeth as his right hand, all claws, pressed his face to the wall as Thrax muscled Jones into place.  
  
"Isn't it clear Jones? A borrowed body, the owner long since dead, forgotten. I lived there. I WAS him and he was me. And he hated it, while he lasted. But he was weak, and gave it over eventually. He died there, in the glass and cold of that damned hospital. But I survived. That's what we DO Jones. We survive." His hands pressed him to the wall, maneuvering. A foot slammed against Jones inner leg, against his ankle, forcing his legs apart. "WHAT ARE YOU D-DOING?" A grit toothed scream.  
  
"Surviving." It was cold, emotionless as the glowing hand descended, trailing a hand over the back of his pants, the claw opening the cloth with a faint popping hiss, baring him to the knee. "I'm not interested in breaking records anymore Jones. I was haughty. I was stupid. And I nearly lost it all because of this." As he tore his pants away, Thrax smirked warmly, pinning his head harder to force a gritty, muffled scream.  
  
"Why you Jones?" He spread him further, slowly working his own clothing free, unzipping the cloth carefully. "Why you? I hated you! No... no, I didn't hate you. Pity, maybe even admiration. You had so much going against you, but you didn't stop." He seemed almost regretful for a moment. "But why'd you have to fight so hard Jones? You fought me. And it WORKED. You made me weak, you made me lose. Cost me a good body Jones. And you CHANGED me..." A snarl, a harsh, wicked fluttering snarl. "You changed me. Made me too strong. Too much. Nobody could withstand me. It wouldn't work. It wouldn't WORK. They DIED Jones. I finally did the smart thing. I bred. I stalked. I caught them alone, and I took them. And they DIED. They died, melting before me. It wasn't like this before. The power. The heat. You did this, YOU changed me. Made me stronger. Too much for them to handle. But you... you survived it. You of all people survived my touch for this long!" He drifted a hand low then, fingers slipping along a faint crease in the cloth, pushing inwards a bit, running along, claws feeling for a faint indentation he knew would be there. "This is my third time Jones. My third time with you." The words then were playful, mocking. "But you don't remember it do you? The building. An old mattress. Blood. A fight. Screaming. Your legs being forced apart. You been dreamin' lately Jones? Dreamin of things? Sick things? Wonderin about your sex-yu-ality?" A blunt heat nudged at him. "Did you dream of me as I held you down. Of the burning, starting back there and washing through you. Heat against your skin. Heat inside you...  
  
The stare that met him was priceless.  
  
"Heat does funny things to a cell Jones. Does funny things to their brains. Sometimes it kills em, sometimes... it just makes em forget. You forgot it Jones. Forgot it both times. BOTH times! I wonder, will you remember me thrusting inside you Jones when you look upon me and call me father? Will you remember? Or will you lose yourself and be a blank slate for my first born son..."  
  
And with that, he thrust his legs as wide as they would go, positioned himself against the straining Osmosis' tight opening... and buried himself to the hilt. Oddly enough, Thrax slid inside relatively easily, scattering a dripping trail of saline as Jones felt himself torn open, violated as he arched against him, fighting, screaming as the virus took him, the sputtering shower scattering freezing spray across the two of them as Ozzie struggled beneath the rapist virus within him, the stabbing pain and the searing heat of him. Clawing at the keratin tiles, at the wall, trying to gain purchase on a slippery floor, he fought mindlessly as the hot lipid spear of Thrax's erection thrust once again, burying itself in him, the fire washing through him. Legs wide and spread, he was shaking, the fire mounting in him, boiling away at his insides as Thrax's claws drifted over his waist. Eventually slipping gave way to falling, and he was on his knees, back bathed in burning cold water as Thrax pumped with a ruthlessly efficient rhythm, drifting a hand down his back to arch him just so. "Soon Jones. Soon the time of telling. When your temperature will soar and all this will come to an end. Frank will carry me to a new epidemic Jones, with you at my side we will bring this world to it's knees..." Smiling ironically at the mentioning of the position, he gentled his movements, raking his claws against Jones' back through the cloth. Jones cried silently, teeth bared and face aching. He didn't see his features twist, the pleasant gentle sweep of cellular skin tightening, sharpening as his teeth grew to fangs. His features were softer than Thrax's, the sharpness of his chin not as pronounced, long drape of dreadlocks a tad bit shorter, softer, paler. Teeth sharper. Fangs. He gasped weakly, crouched before him, half naked as the light water sheeted across them and Thrax gave in, his hips meeting Jones' own, gently moaning into the boy's ear as he finally came, releasing the final, vital core strands into Jones' ravaged body. The drain had clogged and they collapsed into the shallow water, Ozzie panting weakly through lax lips as he felt Thrax gently shift within him. He whimpered, writhing beneath the virus as the fire rose, the water hissing around him as he struggled weakly, fighting the invading code that hurt him and changed him and boiled him inside. Thrax felt the water heat, and contented himself for the moment, laying beside the transforming white blood cell, calm, composed, waiting. The water boiled as Jones boiled inside, the straining hand flashing and flexing into claws, the eyes burning yellow and hot. He felt the temperature climbing, watched carefully as Jones hit temperatures that could light the keratin. Temperatures that would have killed him, blackened flesh and left Jones as any of the rest. Dead, lying twisted and smoking faintly the next day. But the white blood cell beside him just gasped weakly, eyes closed and jaws gaping, panting, snarling- fighting it. Fighting the heat that threatened to kill him.  
  
And Thrax waited, an oddly tender look on his face... before he bent, gathering the tight, shaking red form to his chest, the rest of Jones' shirt smoking as it burnt off him like paper, leaving nothing but the shredded remains of his pants, even these no longer providing him decency as Thrax held his son carefully. Jones gasped weakly as he fought the bleeding, gaping hole in his sanity, in his identity. And as the last of the viral genetics merged with his own, Ozzie hissed then, eyes wide and terrified, yellow and glaring and his hair, a pale bluish white lying across one eye. Thrax gently brushed aside the thick strand... before stilling, his eyes lifting, wide and alert. He stilled, listening, heat turning slowly like a predator... "Well, looks like the cavalry's here ehh Jones?" He smirked to himself, rising faintly, leaving his son gasping in the steaming water, legs sprawled out as he flopped onto his back, gasping weakly as he fought to hold off the darkness of unconsciousness that threatened to rise up and claim him. "n-no... wait... please." His voice was weak. But of course, Thrax was already gone.  
  
"Ozzie? Oooooozzzzzzzziiiiiiieeeeee....." Calling softly, large scooplike hand against his head, Drix drifts silently through the maze of shanties. One of the white blood cells from the precinct walks up, the gel cap turning to him with a raised eyebrow... but just gets a headshake in return. Drix throws up a hand, shaking his head with silent frustration. Damn you Jones! Running off like that... where has that blasted cell gone to now? Balling a rather large fist in frustration, the cold pill sighs then, leaning against a corrugated toenail siding house, looking up at it thoughtfully. Momentarily narrowing his eyes, the gel cap Drixenol drifted outwards, shading his eyes as he looked up at the chipped siding, the ridged keratin briefly flickering with a shimmering shadow. Drix could only blink a bit, staring... but there was no more movement, nothing to alert to the fact that it had been anything more than a brief, flickering blink of his imagination. Blinking softly, Drix shook his head a little, moving to the side down the space between walls, his look less than pleased.  
  
He had the gun in his hands. Why? He wasn't completely sure, though it really did drive him up the wall, the nagging trepidation in his mitochondria. It annoyed him. He didn't like being annoyed. Kicking the door in, the white blood cell snapped a hand around, gun swinging as he moved through the doorway, wincing at the unexpected humidity within the room. The gun tracked the room. Steam hissed from the bathroom, and the officer was initially going to leave, not wanting to interrupt the occupant- but stopped. "What tha."  
  
The footsteps in the dust were distinct, fresh, and very very new. Suspicion gave way to wariness, and the gun slowly swept the room. Steps cautious, careful, slow, the cop slipped across the room, eyes everywhere. But as he reached the bathroom, the gun dropped, the eyes of the cell alighting with confusion, disgust and not a little animosity.  
  
The nearly naked virus lay there, gasping weakly, one hand across it's face, deadly claws half curled in on themselves as the creature breathed, voice ragged in its throat. It was a retrovirus, one of the body snatchers evidently, and a nasty one... for the briefest moment something akin to pity rose in the officer as he drew a bead, aiming for the forehead. A good headshot and a threat to Frank ended before it began, and the poor, nasty looking thing would be put out of their misery.  
  
"Mark please..." it was a pitiful word, spoken through a voice raw from screaming, and the gun wavered as a set of five daggers that could laughably be called a hand rose, weakly outstretched..  
  
"...wh-who?" It. knew him? He was there in a second, hand outstretched-  
  
"DON'T TOUCH ME." It sounded like it was intended to be a warning, but it came out a snarl, with a complimentary fuckload of teeth. The figure in the tub was up in a second, cringed in around himself, one hand against the wall. The killing finger was up, carefully avoiding contacting the wall as the reddish purple figure shook, dripping and steaming. It was an instinctive gesture. He was already gone. The gun rose once again, noting the instinctive narrowing of his eyes as a deep, breathy hiss slid from the virus' throat.  
  
"So, you're just going to let him shoot you son? Oh, come on... you can't keep an eye on yourself? Though, to be fair, daddy will be accommodating this one time..." The cop whirled, a finger gently trickling against the gun as it melted away. He dropped it, coming up with a utility knife, kicking himself for multiple things. Stupidly letting his guard down.... and not recognizing the features of the virus at first sight. Thrax, el Muerte Rojo, the Sirocco; The Red Death. The knife seemed to move in slow motion, and he watched his hand seem to almost effortlessly fall into the red daggered claws of the virus, he began to curse, long and vehemently. The arm was twisted, membrane tearing as it was wrenched in a way it wasn't meant to be, spicules breaking effortlessly, curses breaking off to a sharp, hoarse cry-  
  
Ozzie could only watch silently, barely able to keep his feet as the cell tried helplessly, fruitlessly to keep up with the blur of black and red that was Thrax. The arm came out of its socket, dangling fluidly, but to the cell's credit it used the shock as an advantage, still managing to transfer the knife and swing again. Thrax just smiled, drifting as if flitting about on the breeze. "No..." Plasma splattered, the pale liquid spattering the walls as talons ripped easily through the cytoplasmic membrane, gutting Mike with a single flicking slash. "Mike..." Thrax looked up thoughtfully, one hand holding said white blood cell by the back of the head, tilting the dying Mike's face upwards and baring the throat and chin.  
  
"Ahh, so you do still remember who you are Jones? Hmm... I must say this.You always manage to surprise me baby... how.interesting." And with those thoughtful words, Mike spasmed as his head was impaled by the glowing tip of the claw, his flesh already starting to bubble and flame as the body was dropped. Thrax stepped away from the rising flames as he made his way to the side of the tub, seating himself carefully. The stunned figure sat in his watery resting place, the hot liquid lapping at him as he stared at the flames. He didn't register the hand that pressed to his lips until the near boiling water, tasting of the saline tang of blood touched his mouth, and he drew back.  
  
Thrax sighed, shaking a dreadlock out of his face, trying again. He was remarkably patient, balancing his left hand against the wall, careful to keep his claw free of the flammable keratin siding, and pressed the palmful of water to Ozzie's lips. "Drink. You will find an aversion to it, but the water, boiling or not, is necessary. You will lose water constantly and you MUST drink at every opportunity. Oh come on Jonesy... drink for your daddy okay?" Parched lips took the water slowly, and Thrax smiled, dipping slowly from the dirty water and prompting him to drink every few seconds. Ozzie drank until he was sick, and coughed raggedly. Thrax, staring into his eyes, smiled warmly. Ozzie wove drunkenly as claws slid under his underarms, lifting him weakly... and as he was taken from the wet sanctuary of the tub, he stood there, before the burning corpse of his coworker. Before his father. Thrax stood above him, pride upon his face... and as he intoned in a remarkably formal voice, it was all Ozzie could do to remain standing.  
  
"As my father Flavos of the Dengue strain passed unto me, I, Thrax, pass unto you your title of virality, my son... You will henceforth be known as Ozma. Aduroaegrotatio Ozmas. My son." He seemed oddly choked for emotion, wiping at his eye with a water and plasma wet hand. "Oh baby, I'm all choked up! I ...I have a son." And Ozzie- Ozma... just stared, a terrible sort of numbness within him as he felt a pair of wiry killer's arms slide around him as Thrax held him tenderly for a few seconds...  
  
---  
  
"You want me to do... what?" They were perched at the side of the building, the wind tearing at his father's coat and his own pathetic rags. Thrax blinked softly, offering an encouraging smile and beckoned a claw towards the window. "Simple Oz. Within the building is something of mine. something important that was taken. no... something that I foolishly lost. Your daddy made some mistakes in his time Oz. Remember that. And don't make them yourself." A clawed hand caressed the tough skin and bone of his shoulder, and Oz raised his head, gazing softly into his father's eyes.  
  
"You'll find it inside. A simple black chain with glowing lights in it. Look for it Oz. It's important to me." His hands clenched, as if they ached to hold the cool chain once more.  
  
Oz nodded solemnly, face tight as he tensed. crawling down the side of the building like a fly, clinging with claws clenched. They were roughly twelve stories up, but neither Oz or Thrax seemed disturbed by the height, save for a faint quirk to Oz's eyebrow. Something seemed to hover at the side of his thoughts. Like the fact that he should be terrified at being at a lateral angle twelve stories over the street? But why would he be? There was no danger- he had his claws. But that feeling, the need to get away from the edge was there. And it confused him. But he shook this from his mind with a snarl, slipping down the side of the building till he reached the window. Which was closed, but slit open obediently under his fingers, the difficult, irritating membrane curling and crackling as he made to make his way inside. "Oh. And Oz?"  
  
Turning to look to the voice, Oz hesitated, glancing back as the window cracked and burned. Thrax leaned out over the building, trenchcoat snapping and flapping about in the winds. "Do try to find something to wear baby. Rags are... not your thing."  
  
-  
  
Cozy. Small, slightly slobbish. ...small. The ever typical bachelor pad. Oz sighed, glancing around the place with an annoyed haste to his movements. It didn't take much time to cage the living space as empty of a place to hide Thrax's chain. A door briefly opened... to a long hall of rooms. Must be the front door... the membrane whooshed closed after he had withdrawn, scanning the rest of the room apathetically. A couch of some sort, looking secondhand. A wide bubble of a television. A small, grungy kitchen. And a hall- the wiry red figure made his way slowly, thoughtfully through the plain reddish hallway, idly tracing the shorter claws of his right hand along the warmth of the wall. It hissed faintly at the unnatural feverish heat of his talon tips... it was not his killing claw, but even this left faint marks. Oz blinked just a little, before wandering into the room. A sprawled bed, looking wrinkled and mussed. A cluttered dresser. Clothes strewn all over the floor. Clawed hands drifted deftly over the desk, sifting through bits of paper, a few discarded food wrappers as he let the tips of his claws drift. They clicked softly against the small crock of some sort of salve. A sudden comprehension of what it was used for brought a soft chuckle to his voice.  
  
The drawer hissed as he clawed it open- and there it was. Seated within a nest of badly folded paper, the chain lay heavy and dark and was almost painfully cool as he lifted it, watching in fascination as it draped itself across his claws. Playing with it a moment, he paused... a small, battered photograph lay there, just below the chain. It was stained and scraped, and as he lifted it, his palm hissed hotly across the thin sheet. A white blood cell stood there, looking playful, sarcastic, idly pulling a gellcap's face into bad expressions as his own cellular makeup was stretched and distorted in revenge by the remarkably serious looking pill. An odd feeling welled within him as he passed his hand over the simple photograph. He hadn't even asked Thrax who had lived here. The chill of the air was starting to snap at his skin, and he shook himself once, eyes roaving. The clothing on the floor smelled disgustingly of the mild taint of white blood cell, and Oz walked over it carefully, bare feet sharp toed and cautious. The small closet barely managed to contain even the meager selection it had, and Oz could only blink in disapproval. But a pair of unpleasantly cool but sharp, crisp and clean slacks didn't hiss and burn under his touch, and the thick jacket, shiny like old leather and looking vaguely aviatorish hung low on even his rather spindly frame. It smelled faintly of cleaning chemicals but the furze kept him warm and, even without a shirt, it looked good. Adjusting the collar with a careful hand, he wrapped the chain around his other wrist at the same time, striding outwards...  
  
To see a thick featured cold pill carefully and concernedly running its hand over the wall, big blunt fingers tracing the marks his claws had left behind...  
  
Who looked up, large buster swiveling to track him. He didn't laugh. He didn't attack. Oz stared, a searching look in those insane yellow eyes.  
  
"You. You're of... /his/ strain... what have you done with Jones? Where's Osmosis?" The other hand gripped his jacket, pulling him close dispite the obvious danger of the now glowing claw. But Oz just allowed this, a soft, thoughtful smile on his face... Before Drix froze, burning lips brushing his own for a second, a tongue aflame slipping in and scorching at his tongue as the virus... kissed him. Pulling back, it just studied his eyes once more... -Before laying his chest open by its claws. 


End file.
